


come away, o human child

by betony



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms, Sleeping Beauty – All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Revisionist Fairy Tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You gave her to us. Accept the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come away, o human child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storm_queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_queen/gifts).



You gave her to us.

Years on years have passed by, but that much you must remember. Of your own free will you handed your child to our care, kissing her pink cheeks as you wept over her and begged us to keep her safe. We swore on our existence that she would come to no harm from our sister while under our protection, and we did not lie. We cannot lie. You gave her up, uncoerced, and to yourself you claimed you had no other choice and believed it, too. 

But we did not. 

(Not I!)

(Nor I.) 

(Nor I.) 

(Nor I.) 

(Nor I!) 

The ceremony was lovely. How could it be otherwise? You insisted on holding the christening in the grand hall rather than the cathedral. You were bent on sending out invitations far and wide rather than performing the rites in secret only with a trusted few. How it must have stung, later, when the archbishop and your hag of a nursemaid reminded you that the cathedral would have been safer from a fairy’s curse, and that you had only refused because the cathedral was old and dark and dank. What a price to pay for a bit of grandeur. 

But what a lovely ceremony, nevertheless. 

The banners shone in the sunlight, and every last one of your lords and ladies and flunkies glowed with the pretense of joy. Even your daughter was on her best behavior, and as you held her close and graciously accepted the congratulations and presents of ambassadors and dignitaries, fellow kings and queens, your heart swelled with pride, and you were content. 

And just before it came time to dip the child in holy water, we came, the patrons of your royal clan. You had forgotten us, true, turned away from our ways, but you remembered enough from your superstition and your fear to set out the offerings, and so we too were content. 

In return we brought the child gifts of our own: 

(Fairness of form and face, to please the eye that looks on her.) 

(Sweetness of song to soothe the ear that hears her.) 

(Fresh fragrance to quicken the heart of those who approach her.) 

(The savor of strawberries to delight the lips that kiss her.) 

(And skin soft and tender to the touch!) 

Then our sister entered the hall, glorious in her rage, and how you shuddered at the sight. And a frightening sight she made indeed—shrikes nesting on her shoulders and dark magic dripping like oil from her hair. A head taller than the tallest and broadest of your guards she stood, and no matter how much you wanted to, you could not stop her. 

You had no silver plate or crystal glass to welcome her, nor a cloth-of-gold dress to exchange for her mercy. You thought that she, who had eaten at our table and had clothed herself in moth wings and spider-silk, would have noticed the difference. So when she opened her mouth and pronounced the curse of death upon your princess, you thought your carelessness had been the cause. 

Oh Majesty, dear Majesty, no more tears! It had as little to do with you and yours as the life of any mortal to the rest of the world. It was us she set herself against, our wishes she meant to thwart, and for that we set all our powers to undo what she had done. 

Rest assured, Majesty, she did find suitable punishment for her offense. From our revels was she sent, from our meadows is she barred. 

(From our dances beneath full moon.) 

(From our snares to lure the curious fool.) 

(From our intrigues in the mortal world.) 

(From our brewings far below the hills.) 

(From our feasts on tender flesh!) 

She meddles now only in common mortals’ lives, a cobbler of enchanted shoes. The few queens she manages to raise high in human circles all fall from favor soon. But she tries and tries again, the fool, seeking desperate serving girls wherever she roams, each time believing that this time, she will create a queen malleable enough to trade to our court for forgiveness. 

So persistent, our sister, and that same persistence you feared when, despite our promises that what our sister had decreed would not come to pass, you lacked faith. You dreamt our sister would destroy your child before the sixteenth year, and so you begged us to take her away, and we obeyed. 

Now that we have brought her back to your arms after so many long years, now that we have sent you a handsome prince to dispel the last lingering touches of our sister’s curse, why so many questions? How much easier would it be, Majesty, if you closed your eyes to what you see? If you ignored that when the castle woke from its slumber, your stubborn old nursemaid was found in a tower-room, clutching a spindle to her breast? If you dismissed the fact that when she was questioned, she went mad, crying out that she had failed as she watched your daughter holding her prince’s hand loosely in her own? 

Sweet Majesty. Do yourself a kindness and forget. 

(Forget her blue eyes shine now grass-green.) 

(Forget her voice croaks and caws when she screams.) 

(Forget she shrinks from the stench of iron when you bleed.) 

(Forget her tastes long for the dishes of our feasts.) 

(Forget that thorns spring up where she treads.) 

The stubbornness of mortal minds holds fast in you. Very well. 

To think, if our foolish sister had had her way in indulging her spite, all our years of shaping and creating the perfect queen might have gone to waste. But before we had only hoped to come across your daughter when she was alone and cozen her into our plans, so our sister—even in her rebellion—served our purposes alone. For fear of her, you served your daughter up to us and gave us years instead of days to mold her into what she must become. 

Does your daughter hold a silver sword to your neck and demand your crown, my dear? Does she call herself _Briar Rose_ instead of _L’Aurore_? Do you not recognize yourself in her eyes? 

Oh Majesty, poor Majesty. 

Your subjects speak in hushed tones of changelings, of children who are their own but not quite, and use all the talismans and prayers they can to prevent such a fate; but you, Majesty—you gave her to us. 

Remember that. We will.

**Author's Note:**

> For storm_queen, whose prompt on examining the nature of (wicked) fairy godmothers was too good not to explore.  
> Title from William Butler Yeats' "The Stolen Child."


End file.
